


November 1999

by oselle



Series: Birthright [6]
Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, Angst, Conspiracy, Fugitives, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oselle/pseuds/oselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zeke, trying to figure out where to go from here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	November 1999

**Author's Note:**

> Podfic available [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/941231).

Zeke parked for the night behind the garage bay of an industrial park, as far from the light as he could. When he shut off the engine, he could hear Casey rapidly panting in the back seat.  
  
 _What the fuck_ , he thought. _What the fuck now?_  
  
Two days had passed since he’d taken Casey, two days of Casey puking and shivering and having the sweats and hallucinating. And when he wasn’t doing those things, he was babbling at Zeke, begging for his meds, for his mother, begging to go home. Zeke didn’t know much about withdrawal, and he didn’t even know what the hell Casey was withdrawing from, but after two days, it seemed that Casey should have been showing some sign of coming around. How fucking long was this going to take?  
  
Maybe he really was nuts, Zeke thought. How the hell should I know? I didn’t even know the goddamn kid before last September. Maybe they locked him up for a reason. Zeke stared out at the black parking lot, absently chewing his lip and wondering if all he’d managed to do was kidnap a genuinely sick kid. And buy himself a nice, long jail sentence in the bargain.  
  
Casey made a panicky whimpering sound. Zeke sighed, hauled himself out of the car, and climbed into the back seat. The whole car smelled like puke, but it was worse in the back, and Zeke cracked open the window even though it was cold out. Casey was slumped in the corner, his knees drawn up. He was shuddering so badly that he was making the car sway; Zeke had never seen anyone shake like that.  
  
“Casey,” Zeke said, and Casey’s eyes darted to him, then away. “Casey, have something to drink. Have some Pepsi or something, come on. It’ll make you feel better.”  
  
Zeke held out the bottle and Casey shook his head.  
  
“Come on, Casey,” Zeke said, and edged closer to him on the seat. Casey knocked the bottle from Zeke’s hand.  
  
“Shit,” Zeke said. “That’s just great, Casey. That was the last one I had.” He picked up the bottle and capped it; there was still a little left in the bottom.  
  
“You said…” Casey stammered. “You said…you said…”  
  
“What?” Zeke asked, exasperated. “What? What did I say?”  
  
“You said I…if I told you…I could go home. I told you…I told you everything…and you…you…”  
  
“Jesus, Casey, it’s me, all right? It’s Zeke…whoever you’re talking to, they’re not here, okay? I’m here. Zeke. Remember? Herrington High? Go Hornets?”  
  
“I told you…I told you…you…you have to let me…let me go home…you said…”  
  
Zeke closed his eyes and listened to Casey babble. He rubbed his hands over his face.  
  
“Just…get some sleep or something.” Zeke picked Casey’s jacket up from the floor and tried to put it around Casey. Casey cowered and threw his hands up for protection.  
  
“What do you want?” Casey shrieked breathlessly. “I don’t know any more! I…I…” Casey’s words trailed off into a scream that was ear-splitting in the confines of the car, and that Zeke was certain could have been heard for half a mile around.  
  
“Jesus, Casey, stop it!” Zeke shouted. “Stop it, shut up!” He grabbed Casey by the shoulders and Casey struggled against him, screaming. Desperate, Zeke clamped his hand over Casey’s mouth. Casey’s eyes bulged at Zeke.  
  
“Calm the fuck down Casey! It’s just me! You know who I am! I know you…OW! Jesus!” Casey had bitten him, hard, right in the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger. Zeke yanked his hand back. Casey wriggled away from him and began slamming his hands against the window.  
  
“Stop it, Casey!” Zeke shouted. “Stop it!” He wrestled Casey away from the door and got him facedown on the seat, his arms behind his back.  
  
“All right,” Zeke panted. “All right. All right. Now just…calm down, Casey…just…”  
  
Casey suddenly went silent and rigid underneath Zeke.  
  
“Hey…hey, Casey?” Zeke climbed off of Casey and crouched on the floor. He reached up and flipped on the dome light. “Casey?”  
  
Casey’s eyes were wide open and terrified. His mouth trembled but he didn’t make a sound.  
  
 _I barely touched him_ , Zeke thought defensively. _That couldn’t have hurt him_.  
  
“Casey? I’m sorry…hey…come on…” He put a tentative hand on Casey’s back and Casey whimpered.  
  
Zeke quickly took his hand away. “Okay, I won’t touch you, all right?”  
  
“You’ll do what you want,” Casey whispered.  
  
A chill ran through Zeke and he rocked back on his heels, shaken. He turned off the dome light, not wanting to see Casey’s face anymore. He sat in the dark, listening to Casey’s ragged breath.  
  
Neither of them moved for about fifteen minutes. Then Casey slowly drew himself into the corner, folding himself up smaller and smaller. He put his forehead on his knees and wrapped his arms around his head. Zeke let him sit like that for a little while, before he picked up the jacket and put it over Casey’s shoulders. Casey fisted his hands in his hair and began to rock back and forth.  
  
“What did they do to you, man?” Zeke breathed. “What the fuck did they do?” He watched Casey for a few more minutes, until he thought that Casey had either passed out or fallen asleep. Then, worn out, he put his arms on the seat, rested his head on them and dozed.  


  
_____  
  


The pale, wintry daylight woke Zeke. He lifted his head and rubbed his stiff neck. His hand ached where Casey had bitten him; Zeke looked at it and saw a semicircle of tooth-marks on his skin, thinly crusted with blood.  
  
Casey hadn’t budged but he was awake, or at least conscious. He was pulling at his hair, one clump at a time, so hard that Zeke could hear it, could hear something, anyway, a little thok sound with each tug. Zeke watched him with groggy dismay.  
  
“Cut that out,” he said hoarsely. Casey stopped. He laced his hands over the back of his head and began rocking. Zeke let him. It was an improvement, though not by much.  


  
_____  
  


An hour later, Zeke pulled into a rest area. They were in North Dakota, about fifty miles from the Canadian border, and Zeke had planned to see what things were like at the border crossing, if there was any possible way to get across unnoticed. But first he needed to get something to eat and drink, and although the rest area was unstaffed, it had vending machines. Casey had actually drunk the little bit of Pepsi that had been left and managed not to throw it up, although it had doubled him over with stomach cramps.  
  
The rest area was off the road, tucked into a small stand of pine woods. No one else was there, but Zeke parked at the far end, where the trees were thickest. He looked into the back seat. Casey was sleeping.  
  
Zeke got out of the car and closed the door quietly. He looked through the window as he walked away; Casey didn’t move.  
  
The coffee vending machine didn’t work. Doesn’t that just figure? Zeke thought. He’d been fantasizing about coffee since waking up, rich, black, steaming coffee, and he felt done in by its unattainability, as if this were yet another portent that he’d fucked up. The Canadian border was fifty miles away, but a pay phone was just ten feet away. He could call the cops, and tell them to come get him. To come get them. He stood staring at the pay phone for a minute before turning to feed dollar bills into the other machines.  
  
He bought Coke and Drake’s Cake ( _That’s the breakfast of fucking champions_ , he thought), then turned and walked back to the car. It started to snow, and Zeke realized that it was almost December now.  
  
The car looked different as Zeke approached it, and the difference was so obvious yet so unthinkable that it took a few seconds to register on Zeke. The back door was open.  
  
“Casey,” Zeke said. He broke into a run. “Casey!” he shouted and ran faster.  
  
A quick look in the back seat confirmed that Casey was gone. He looked around wildly.  
  
“Casey!”  
  
Zeke heard a sound behind him in the woods, and knew it was Casey, running. He dropped the soda and cake and went after him.  
  
He stopped to listen again and heard Casey, farther off. Then suddenly, he heard nothing.  
  
 _He knows I heard him_ , Zeke thought. _He’s lying low._ He took off in the direction where Casey’s last sounds had come from.  
  
Zeke came around a bend and saw Casey’s sneakers first, but something was wrong, Casey’s feet were moving strangely, jerking. And now Zeke could hear Casey, could hear him making a choking sound. All of Casey came into view then; he was lying on his side, eyes wide open and blank, his arms rigidly out before him, his back arched.  
  
“Jesus,” Zeke said. “Jesus.” He knelt at Casey’s side and put his hand on his arm, trying to turn him over, but Casey was stiff as a plank. Zeke tried to pick him up and couldn’t.  
  
 _Call the cops!_ Zeke thought, almost hysterically. _Call them for Christ’s sake!_ Zeke got up, ready to run to the pay phones, then fell to his knees again, afraid to leave Casey. He put one hand on Casey’s arm, the other under his head and helplessly watched him convulse.  
  
The seizure seemed to go on for at least fifteen minutes, but later, Zeke was sure it had only lasted for two, three at the most. Casey at last went limp and released a deep breath. Zeke carefully turned him over. Casey’s eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, staring up at the sky.  
  
“Casey, look at me. Come on, look at me, say something.”  
  
A slick trail of saliva streaked Casey’s cheek. Zeke wiped it away with his sleeve. “Casey? Casey, can you hear me?”  
  
“No one’s there,” Casey said at last, his voice guttural. He eyes rolled without focusing.  
  
“No, Casey, I’m here. Look at me.” He put his hand on Casey’s cheek and tried to turn his head. “Casey?”  
  
Casey’s eyes slid closed.  
  
“Casey?” Zeke said. He shook him lightly. “Casey!” He put his fingers on Casey’s neck and felt the pulse stuttering along, but he could not wake him up.  
  
He pulled Casey onto his knees and for a while he could do nothing but sit with Casey in his arms. “Fuck!” he said, on the verge of tears. He turned his face up and screamed, “FUCK!” to the indifferent sky.  


  
_____  
  


Zeke almost called 911 from the pay phone at the rest area, but couldn’t. He didn’t know if he was afraid for Casey or afraid for himself, but he put Casey in the car and started driving. His instincts stopped him again when he almost turned the car around to double-back to Minot and find a hospital. So he drove, not even knowing in what direction he was headed, just drove, looking over his shoulder every few minutes to see if Casey had come to. Every time he looked, Casey was exactly the same—sprawled out on the back seat where Zeke had dumped him.  
  
Zeke drove in a blind fog, his head filled with the image of Casey convulsing. When Zeke had taken Casey, he had been sure that Casey was just so strung out that if he dried out enough he’d come to his senses. But it was dawning upon Zeke that whatever was wrong with Casey might be permanent, that he had either been crazy all along or that whatever had happened to him had left him fucked up for good, in ways that Zeke had no idea how to handle. It was hardly something Zeke had considered when he had tied Casey’s sneakers four days before. The list of things Zeke had not considered that day was growing longer by the minute.  
  
Casey’s seizure had left him covered with mud all along his side, and when Zeke had picked Casey up, he had found that Casey’s jeans were wet, and not from the muddy ground. Zeke realized that he didn’t even have a change of clothes for the kid, so now Casey was lying comatose, or nearly so, soaked in mud and piss. Zeke seized on an idea, because he had to seize on something, something to do, instead of just driving to nowhere in a daze. He would clean Casey up. He would clean Casey up, and wait for him to come around, and then he would figure out what to do, how to fix this.  
  
Zeke pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot in a town whose name he didn’t know. He’d have to leave Casey alone to go in there, and though Casey showed little sign of waking up, Zeke couldn’t even think of what would happen if Casey did come to while he was gone. He got in the backseat and hastily tied Casey’s hands behind his back with the seatbelt.  
  
“Sorry, Casey,” he whispered, but he didn’t know what else to do. He covered Casey up with his jacket, so that if anyone glanced in the car, they would just think a kid was sleeping back there.  
  
He walked to the Wal-Mart entrance, looking back at the car with every few steps. Inside, he grabbed packs of t-shirts and boxer shorts, sweatpants and socks. He had no idea what Casey’s size was, and somewhere in his mind, his rapidly vanishing old self marveled at the very idea that he was in a Wal-Mart in Nowhere, North Dakota, puzzling out Casey Connor’s size in underwear.  
  
The cashier’s line seemed endless; Zeke was sweating, his heart pounding. He felt like he’d been in there for hours. The woman ahead of him spilled all of her change on the conveyor belt.  
  
“Oh, sugar!” she said, and then bantered with the cashier while picking it up.  
  
 _Just get the fuck out of the way!_ Zeke almost screamed.  
  
The cashier was a moon-faced girl of about eighteen. She gave Zeke a broad, dimpled smile and asked, “Christmas presents?”  
  
“What?” Zeke asked, running his hand through his hair. He felt close to throwing up. “Oh…yeah. Right.”  
  
“We do gift wrap, if you want it, right by Customer Service. You can pick the ribbon you want and everything.”  
  
Zeke shook his head and was faintly aware of the girl scowling at his rudeness. She jammed his things in a bag and moved on to the next customer with pursed lips.  
  
Zeke held his breath until he got back to the car, then let out an audible sigh of relief. Casey hadn’t moved. Zeke got behind the wheel, pulled out, and hit the road.  


  
_____  
  


Zeke drove for two more hours before finding a motel. The Runway Motel, so named because it was near a small airport, but both the snow-dusted airstrip and the motel looked like visitors were a rarity. Zeke wondered if the news about him and Casey had reached as far as this corner of North Dakota, then decided he didn’t care.  
  
He asked for a room far from the office, saying that he had been driving all night and he didn’t want the sound of the ice machine to keep him awake. He parked in front of the room, looked around carefully, and then carried Casey inside.  
  
Casey was too filthy to put on the bed, so Zeke laid him on the bathroom floor. Casey didn’t even twitch. And suddenly, Zeke found himself at a loss. What was he supposed to do…give Casey a bath? Give Casey Connor a bath?  
  
The thought of bathing this unconscious kid that he barely knew was so appalling that Zeke couldn’t bring himself to do it. He rubbed most of the mud out of Casey’s hair with a damp towel, undressed him and toweled him off in stages, and dressed him again in the new clothes. He barely looked at Casey the whole time, but he could feel how bony Casey was under his hands, all ribs and elbows and jutting hips. The scars on Casey’s skinny arms felt as thick as cables.  
  
He put Casey to bed and covered him up, and then he had to sit down for a minute with his head in his hands. He almost felt like laughing—after everything, Marybeth, prison and the past three days, he’d been undone by dirty clothes.  
  
When he looked up again, Casey’s eyes were open.  
  
Zeke’s heart jumped and he leaned over Casey. Casey’s eyes followed him steadily but disinterestedly, as if he were watching a particularly dull TV show.  
  
“Casey? Hey…hey buddy. How’re you feeling?”  
  
Casey didn’t answer, only stared dispassionately at Zeke. Zeke touched Casey’s face.  
  
“Casey? Can you hear me? Casey? Come on…please…say something.”  
  
Casey blinked but said nothing, and Zeke’s heart sank. Even the shrieking and babble he’d endured during the past few days seemed better than this zombie-like silence.  
  
He went into the bathroom and filled a glass of water. He held Casey up so he could drink, and Casey swallowed placidly, his eyes never leaving Zeke’s face.  
  
Zeke laid Casey back down, then pulled a chair to the side of the bed.  
  
“I wish you’d say something, Casey,” Zeke said softly. “I wish you’d just tell me you were okay.”  
  
Casey did not oblige, but his gaze remained steady. After a few minutes, Casey began to blink heavily, and finally closed his eyes. Zeke sat beside the bed and watched him.  
  
Zeke was nodding off when Casey turned his head on the pillow and moaned. He curled up on his side, then reached up and began pulling at his hair, the way he had in the car that morning. Zeke stood up and leaned over him.  
  
“Don’t do that,” he said softly, and took Casey’s hand. He brought it down to Casey’s side and was about to let go but Casey’s fingers closed tightly around his and held on.  
  
“Okay, buddy, okay,” Zeke said. He let go so that he could lie down beside Casey, then took his hand again. Casey’s fingers tightened, like an infant’s reflex.  
  
Zeke looked at Casey, and felt again the shock that had hit him when Mrs. Connor had first shown him into Casey’s room. Even if he hadn’t found Casey lying there with his fingers in his mouth, Zeke would have wondered what the hell had happened to him. He remembered Casey as a rosy-faced kid whose delicate looks alone would have gotten him beaten up, without being a geek on top of it. He’d been frigging pretty for Christ’s sake. Now he was as ashen and gaunt as someone who had busted out of a POW camp. He looked almost bruised around his eyes and his lips were chewed up and scabby. He had bald spots.  
  
When Stokely had first written to Zeke about the institution, he’d envisioned a pastel place where fucked-up suburban kids went to gobble Prozac and talk about their feelings. Seventeen-year-old kids didn’t come out of a place like that half-bald and out of their fucking minds.  
  
Zeke lay awake, contemplating the new and not-improved Casey. He could not imagine taking Casey back to Herrington, to the people who had done this to him. And yet, how could he not? Whatever was wrong with Casey, he needed care, medicine, doctors. Zeke had $900 bucks in his wallet ( _And how about that trust?_ his mind teased. _Forgot about that, didn’t you, Zekey-boy?_ ), a half-stolen car outside, and a host of black suspicions, but that was it.  
  
“I’m sorry, Casey,” Zeke said. Casey’s forehead creased in his sleep, and Zeke smoothed it out. “I’m sorry, man.”  


  
_____  
  


Zeke’s last thought before falling asleep was that he would probably be woken up by police kicking in the door.  
  
Instead, he woke up on his own, to silence. No daylight now showed through the gaps around the curtain, and the red numbers on the bedside clock told him it was 5:20. He’d been asleep for about five hours.  
  
He rolled over and looked at Casey. Casey had turned away from him, and was a motionless lump under the blankets. Zeke could hear him breathing and was grateful for it—part of him had been afraid that Casey was going to die in his sleep, or his coma, or whatever the hell that had been.  
  
Zeke stared up at the ceiling, thinking about what he would do next. He saw no point in spending the night at the motel. It was early evening, and he had slept long enough to be refreshed. If he started driving back to Ohio now, he could be there by tomorrow night, tomorrow afternoon if he really hauled ass. He’d take Casey back home, then go to the police and turn himself in. No, forget that—Casey’s mother would probably call the police in hysterics as soon as he walked out the door, and he was in no mood to have an army of Herrington’s Finest staging a “pursuit,” and probably shooting him in their enthusiasm. He’d take Casey back home, then ask Casey’s mother to call the cops. He’d wait for them there, then turn himself in. Good plan.  
  
 _Good plan_ , he thought gloomily. _Should’ve had a “good plan” three days ago._ That wasn’t entirely true, though, he’d had a plan. But the plan sure as hell hadn’t involved Casey almost dropping dead in a North Dakota rest stop. Zeke thought about how much time he’d get. Hell, he’d brought the kid back, hadn’t he? That would have to count for something. He wondered if his mother would turn up for the arraignment, or if she would write him off for good this time.  
  
Zeke got up and turned on the light. He glanced at Casey, but Casey was still out of it. His eyes had drifted a quarter open, and Zeke could only see the whites. It was creepy as hell. He sat down beside Casey, put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light shake.  
  
“Casey. Wake up. Come on, time to go.”  
  
Casey took a long time waking up, and even after he opened his eyes, he seemed unaware of Zeke’s presence.  
  
 _Jesus, he’s fucked up. He’s just fucking gone. What was I thinking?_  
  
“Casey, look at me. Let’s go, buddy. Look up.”  
  
Finally, Casey turned over onto his back and looked at Zeke. His eyebrows drew together in confusion.  
  
“Hey,” Zeke said. “Feel better?”  
  
Casey didn’t answer, but he turned his head and looked around the room, the same puzzled expression on his face.  
  
“Come on, sit up,” Zeke said. He pulled Casey to a sitting position, and Casey sat up without resistance. “You’d better go to the bathroom before we leave.”  
  
Casey shakily swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat with his head down as if the effort had tired him. Zeke reached over him to the nightstand, where he’d left the glass of water.  
  
“Here, drink something.”  
  
Casey took the glass and drank slowly, cautiously, without looking at Zeke. He dropped the empty glass in his lap and Zeke caught it and set it down on the bed.  
  
“Go to the bathroom, Casey,” he said, and helped Casey stand up.  
  
Casey took a few shuffling steps forward. He seemed to be doing all right, so Zeke let go of him, and Casey made it to the bathroom on his own. The sweatpants Zeke had bought were too big, and the cuffs puddled around Casey’s feet. Zeke watched Casey close the door behind him, moving with the trembling slowness of an old man. He felt choked by guilt over taking this wreck of a kid away from his home, his mother. Who knew how much more Zeke had fucked him up, just in the past three days?  
  
Zeke started putting on his jacket, but was interrupted by the sound of Casey puking in the bathroom.  
  
 _Fantastic_ , he thought. He opened the bathroom door and found Casey at the sink, his legs half-buckled and his arms braced on either side of the basin. Zeke went to him and looped an arm around Casey’s waist to hold him up, just as Casey heaved again.  
  
“All right,” Zeke said. He put a hand on Casey’s forehead. The poor kid was sweating like crazy. “It’s all right, Casey. It’ll be okay.”  
  
Casey scrabbled at Zeke’s arm around his waist, and Zeke thought Casey was going to start fighting him off again. But Casey found Zeke’s hand and clutched it.  
  
“Zeke…” he said.  
  
“Casey?” Zeke asked, stunned. It was the first sign of recognition Casey had shown in days. “Casey?”  
  
He slid his hand down to Casey’s jaw and turned his face up. Casey met Zeke’s gaze with watering eyes.  
  
“Do you know who I am?” Zeke asked.  
  
Casey nodded, but before Zeke could feel anything like relief, Casey grimaced and turned his face back to the sink, bringing up another mouthful of bile. He groaned and tightened his grip on Zeke’s hand.  
  
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Zeke said helplessly. “It’ll be over soon. It’ll be okay.”  
  
Casey was finally through. Zeke sat him down on the toilet lid and wiped his face. Casey closed his eyes and mumbled, “Thanks.”  
  
“You got it.” Zeke didn’t know what else to say.  
  
Casey opened his eyes and Zeke crouched down in front of him.  
  
“How’re you feeling?” Casey shook his head mutely. “Yeah, I know. I know, buddy. It’ll be okay, though. We’re going home. I’m taking you home. We’ll be there by tomorrow. Okay?”  
  
Casey didn’t say anything. Zeke wiped his face one last time, then stood up and threw the washcloth in the sink. He turned on the water and rinsed out the basin. Casey said something behind him, and Zeke turned off the water.  
  
“What?”  
  
“No,” Casey said, and looked up at Zeke. “No.”  
  
“‘No,’ what?”  
  
“Don’t take me home.”  
  
Zeke sighed and leaned against the sink.  
  
“You’ve been begging me to take you home for three days.”  
  
Casey shook his head. “No…I…”  
  
“Yes, Casey. Yes. You’re sick. You need to go home. I can’t…this was stupid.”  
  
Casey looked down, and Zeke turned back to the sink, wiping up the last of the vomit with the washcloth.  
  
“It’ll be fine, Casey. You’ll be with your mom, and you’ll feel better. Okay?”  
  
Casey didn’t answer, and Zeke was about to say, “Okay?” again, when Casey’s fists slammed him on the back, between the shoulder blades. Startled, Zeke wheeled around. Casey threw himself at Zeke, panic-stricken.  
  
“Don’t!” he shrieked. “Don’t!” He clawed at Zeke’s shirt, at his neck.  
  
Zeke caught Casey’s wrists, stunned that Casey had even this much fight in him.  
  
“Bullshit, Casey! You need to be home. Now stop it, stop it!”  
  
“No!” Casey shouted, and tried to pull his wrists free. “Zeke, no!”  
  
“You’re sick, Casey, okay? You’re sick and I have no medicine and…you don’t even know how sick you are!” Zeke pulled Casey around until he was facing the mirror. “Look at yourself, man. Fucking look at yourself.”  
  
Casey stopped struggling and looked at himself in the mirror for a minute, panting. His face twisted.  
  
“This is what they did,” he said. His eyes filled up with tears. “This is what those fuckers did.”  
  
Zeke froze. Beneath his fingers, the scars on Casey’s wrists were huge.  
  
“Don’t take me back,” Casey said. “Leave me here…or kill me or…do whatever you want, but don’t take me back there. Don’t take me back there.”  
  
Zeke stared at Casey. He clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and tried to think.  
  
“Zeke…Zeke, please, please…”  
  
“They did this on purpose, didn’t they?” Zeke asked, although he already knew the answer. He needed to hear it, he needed to hear it from Casey. “They did this to you on purpose.”  
  
Casey nodded. Tears rolled down his white face. “If you take me home,” he whispered, “They’ll send me back to that place. For good. I’ll die in there.”  
  
Casey began to collapse and Zeke caught him.  
  
“Don’t,” Casey pleaded. “Don’t take me back, Zeke, please…”  
  
Zeke lowered Casey to the floor. Casey pulled his knees up and pressed his forehead into Zeke’s shoulder. Zeke put his arms around Casey and thought.  
  
 _I’ll die in there._ Zeke knew it was true. He knew this was it, too. There would be no turning back from his decision.  
  
Finally, Zeke said, “Okay. Okay, Casey. Don’t cry.” He stroked the back of Casey’s head. “We’re not going back. I won’t take you back.”  
  
Casey made a choked whimpering sound against Zeke’s shoulder.  
  
“Casey?” Zeke asked, but Casey had gone limp, and Zeke thought he must have fainted. Zeke felt like fainting himself. He sat on the floor and held Casey for a long time, looking over Casey’s head at the dingy room, and wondering where the hell they would go from there. 


End file.
